When Tears Aren't Enough
by BanishedThought
Summary: A terrible tragety sends Charlie's life on a tailspin. When he goes over the edge, it's up to those who love him to bring him back. fic starts sad, ends happy CHAPTER 3 UP
1. Hurts

**A/N: **just an idea that came to me on a bad day - the product of not enough sleep, and a whole lot of stress (makes my mind come up with somewhat depressing thoughts about our favourite brothers)

**WARNING: **just a heads-up: this fic does have to do with an attempted suicide (not graphic, but still there), so if you tend to avoid that sort of topic like the plague, i suggest that you do not read this. and if you do end up reading, please leave a review - i live off those things :)

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**Numb3rs: When Tears Aren't Enough**

**By: BanishedThought**

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**Chapter 1 - Hurts**

He couldn't stop crying, had long since lost the energy to sob while the tears fell, resorting to silently shaking as the salty drops stained his cheeks and dripped off his lower jaw. The bottle of pills he'd taken however long ago were making him desperately tired, but he refused to close his eyes yet, choosing instead to stare just a little while longer at the family picture that was still clutched in his trembling hand. It was one of his favorite memories, the last time he could remember feeling truly, honest-to-goodness happy: it had been mid-way through their mother's bought with cancer, the picture having been taken after dinner, a week after Margaret Eppes' last chemo treatment; the doctors had sounded so positive, so optimistic about her survival that they'd all spent the week laughing, joking, smiling... _actually living _for the first time since the initial diagnosis, now that a full recovery seemed imminent in their eyes.

Boy had they had it wrong.

A large teardrop splattered onto the photograph and Charlie did his best to wipe it off, though he had little success, with how much his hands were shaking now. He couldn't be sure if the shaking was the pills finally taking effect or if it was the shaking that he had become use to, for they hadn't been tremor-free since he'd watched his students being shot, one-by-one, the crazed man having had the gun's barrel pressed right up against Charlie's forehead, his finger beginning to pull the trigger when the SWAT team had burst in and killed the man first. He had spent a long six weeks fighting the overwhelming despair that had taken root in his heart, and he just couldn't do it any more; he'd hardly slept, eaten or spoken since the incident, and he had reached a point beyond worn-out, which is what the bottle of sleeping pills had been intended to remedy.

_'I guess on some level, they're going to serve their purpose now,' _he thought vaguely to himself. He let his now tunneled vision roam over his family's smiling faces, marveling at the sheer joy he saw there, and wondering how it was that he could've been filled with that emotion at one point when all he felt now was sadness, pain and... emptiness, the void in his soul having grown with each bullet fired, each life that he'd watched end. Their eyes had almost always sought his out right before the man pulled the trigger, tears streaking down their faces as those eyes seemed to plead with him to do something, to stop this man, _to save them_.

But he hadn't - he'd done nothing to stop any of it, had done nothing but sit there and let them all die... praying silently near the end that he would die with them so that he wouldn't have to face his massacred students' parents afterwards to try and explain why it was that their children were taken from them while he himself was left un-touched.

He sniffed loudly and finally lost the energy to stay sitting up on his own, slumping back against the wall beside his bathtub, his jean-clad legs stretched out in front of him. Unable to lift the hand that held the picture any more, he let both of his arms rest limply in his lap, making sure to hold the picture right-side up so that he could keep on looking at it. He wanted to be annoyed that his vision had become too dim for him to really make out his family's faces any more, but he was far too tired to do so. The only emotions he felt right then were the ones that had been suffocating him for the past month-and-a-half, ever since the day it had all happened, the tragedy striking much too suddenly for him to be prepared, and at the same time lasting far too long for him to be able to move on past it when it was over. Even as he felt his life begin to slip away, those emotions never left him, and his tears and shaking never eased, though he hardly noticed either now, his mind racing round and round the same terrible thoughts and memories, refusing to grant him peace to the very last breath.

He didn't hear the pounding coming from the other side of the bathroom door he'd closed and locked, didn't hear the frantic, familiar voice demanding that he open the door; nothing but the pain registered, all other rational and hopeful thought processes beginning to shut down, at last loosing in the taxing battle for dominance - that battle couldn't be won...

...it just hurt too much to fight.

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_TBC..._

_plenty more to come folks -- lots of brother-to-brother, father-to-son, etc. angst in store, so stay tuned, and don't forget to review _


	2. Shades of Grey

**A/N:** man am i ever mad - every time i went to work on this chapter, something or someone always got in my way, saying i needed to do this or that first... so really, this chapter would've been up three days ago if people would've just left me alone for once -- (sigh - one can dream) anyways, here it is -- and advance notice: the rest of the chapters following this one will be one huge flashback, going all the way back to "the incident" at calsci and working back through the six weeks of emotional struggle to the present, which will be what the last chapter is.

**Warning:** (see 'Warning' at beginning of Chapter 1)

-enjoy, and don't forget to leave a review please-

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**Chapter 2 - Shades of Grey**

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Don wasn't even suppose to be there right then, really; he'd already been there for the past month or so, having decided to move back in temporarily so that he could be there to help their father in trying to get through to Charlie, to get him to open up and, at some point, to smile again. He knew perfectly well what it was that his brother had witnessed, the type of emotional hell it had slowly put him into - he had been one of the first to arrive on scene when the call of a hostage situation in the math department at Cal Sci had come through the 911 switchboard. 

He had had no choice but to merely watch as the appointed FBI negotiator tried his best to talk down the gun-totting lunatic that had taken Charlie and his students captive, had had to have been physically restrained by Colby and David when the gunshots had started and kept on going every five to ten minutes, having been about to run into the building and take that bastard down himself. He would never forget the feeling of absolute terror that would hit him like a punch every time a single shot would ring out, followed by a gradually smaller cacophony of screams from those who were still alive, and he would wonder yet again whether or not it was Charlie who'd been killed that time, if his baby brother's turn to die had come.

He had yet to think of a single moment in his life where he'd felt as powerless and terrified as when he was waiting outside that building, listening to each shot and wondering after each one if today was the day he would have to break their father's heart by informing him that his youngest son had been shot and killed inside his own classroom. Alan would of course demand to know why he hadn't stopped it from happening, and Don would have no choice but to tell him that he'd been forced to wait outside behind the safety of the police barricades, unable to cross those last hundred yards that stood between him and being able to save his little brother from being executed. The only thing that would've come close to being as devastating as Charlie's death would've been the look of broken-hearted disappointment that would mar the eldest Eppes' normally loving features, effectively destroying what little of Don's soul that would be left.

At any rate, he had stayed at his family's house for the first three weeks, trying desperately to get through to Charlie who'd barely spoken or done much of anything since that day, but at the end of the three weeks, he'd been forced to play babysitter to a criminal turning state's evidence. One phone call had been his only warning, after which he'd been stuck for three weeks solid in a safe house with their witness while problems with witness protection were slowly worked out, and the trial progressed, also achingly slowly. It hadn't even been as relaxing as he'd been assured it would be; those three weeks had been occupied with three bomb threats, four attacks on the house, and two escape attempts from their witness, not to mention several killer migraines.

And so, tired and almost entirely drained, Don had been ordered to go home to his apartment to rest up for a few days, but decided to make a quick stop at his childhood home first to check up on things. The phone messages that his father had left for him at the office had been encouraging in the sense that although Charlie hadn't improved much, it sounded at least like he hadn't gotten any worse either, which was a relief.

Presently, he made quick work of pulling into the driveway of the Craftsman home and turning off the engine of his SUV, slowly releasing himself from his seatbelt and all but dragging himself out and towards the house's front door. He had just reached it when the sound of another car pulling in drew his attention back to the driveway where he saw his father in the midst of parking and exiting his vehicle, the fact that Don hadn't noticed his car wasn't already there being a testament to his level of exhaustion. Immediately spotting his son's sagging form, Alan allowed himself a quiet chuckle at the attempt Don made to stand up straight and smile as though he was perfectly fine, when he was clearly dead on his feet.

"I take it protecting that witness was a little more taxing than they let on," he said frankly as he reached Don's side, opening the door to allow them both to step into the front entranceway, and closing it tightly behind them before getting straight down to business. "What we're going to do is get a good solid meal in your stomach, then you'll head upstairs for a shower, after which you will sleep either in your room or on the couch until you're awake enough to drive back to your apartment." Before Don could even begin to think of objecting, he found himself being steered towards the kitchen where he was made to sit at the counter. However, being off of his feet at last only seemed to serve to remind him of just how tired he was, of how long it had been since he'd had a decent sleep, or a peaceful day, and he didn't even notice that his eyes were drifting shut...

Next thing he knew, he was being shaken awake, and he blinked his eyes open, taking a second to remember why he was at the kitchen counter before he sat up as straight as he could, thereby allowing Alan to carefully deposit a bowl of soup where the agent's head had been resting. He stared at the steaming liquid a few moments longer before looking over at his father who'd left and returned with his own bowl.

"Is Charlie home tonight?" Alan answered in between slurps.

"Yes, like always - I wasn't able to convince him to accept Larry and Amita's dinner and movie invitation."

"Should I go get him then? He should eat something." The eldest Eppes frowned for a moment in thought.

"A few hours ago, he said he felt sick to his stomach..." Alan suddenly smiled, startling Don a bit. "When I checked on him before I left for my book club, he was completely wrapped up in his work!" Don's eyebrows jumped in surprise and his spoon dropped back into his bowl with a clatter.

"He was working-working? As in, _math_-working?" Math was one of the things that Charlie hadn't done since the incident, and if that was indeed what he'd been working on, then that had to mean he'd taken a few steps forward in a positive direction... right?

"I don't know what else it could've been - he had one of his math notebooks open and was scribbling away, didn't even pause or look up when I accidentally knocked a glass off of his dresser!" Alan's optimistic smile was contagious, and within seconds Don was outright beaming. He stood from his stool then and started for the stairs, visibly ten-times more energized than he'd been upon first entering the house.

"I'm gonna go and see if he's up for a break yet," Don called cheerfully over his shoulder, and Alan's smile broadened as he set about filling a third bowl of soup.

By the time Don made it to the top of the stairs, he could already feel his newfound energy drying up, but he refused to let his smile leave his face as he knocked moderately loudly on Charlie's closed bedroom door, wondering if he'd even hear him if he was still in math-mode.

"Hey Charlie, can I come in?" As he'd expected he got no answer, and so moved his hand to the doorknob. "I'm coming in," he called as he slowly opened the door, hoping Charlie would hear him and get the hint that he wasn't alone in the house any more so that he wouldn't jump out of his skin when Don walked up to him.

Upon entering the dimly lit room, Don frowned at the unoccupied desk chair until he vaguely recalled seeing the bathroom door closed on his way to Charlie's room. After a moment, he decided to take a peek at what it was that Charlie had been working on while he waited for him to get back, knowing beyond a doubt that there was no way he'd understand what was there, but just wanting desperately to see evidence that he was getting his brother back, that the Charlie they all knew and loved was slowly, but definitely returning to the surface of the frighteningly hollow persona that had recently taken his place.

However, when he looked down at the torn out page that lay on top of the open notebook, he realized quickly that it wasn't math that Charlie had been working on, and though the letter on that page that was addressed to Don and their father was written in perfect English, he found he could not comprehend the words he was reading.

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_Don and Dad,_

_I want to start by thanking you both - not only for tolerating me these past six weeks, but for doing so my whole life, every time something happened so that I lost myself in "my world", and put the burden of looking after my well-being on both of you; I know that I should've been stronger back then, and in the present, and I want you both to know how much I've appreciated your efforts, even if things haven't turned out the way you thought and hoped they would. That being said, I want both of you to remember that what I've done is in no way your fault - _I_ am the reason I am here, _I_ am to blame for this._

_I can't say I ever saw myself writing something like this, but then again up until six weeks ago, I wouldn't have said that I saw myself sitting back and letting twelve of my best students be executed in my classroom either - things change. I use to always believe that in the days following something truly terrible, nothing but good could happen, that one's emotions and attitude had nowhere to go but up after they'd hit rock-bottom, that if there really was a God, he would reward a man with the ability to move on with his life rather than leave him to drown in the wake of the tragedy._

_He's left me to drown, Don, Dad; He's left me to drown, and I've run out of both the energy and the will to stay afloat._

_Dad: you don't need to worry about house payments - I've saved enough over the years that I was able to set up an automatic monthly withdrawal from my account for all utilities, and I've set up a second account for emergency use. I've updated my will so that the house will be yours again, and I don't imagine such a familiar responsibility will be at all difficult for you - you always were better at maintaining it than I was on even my best day. _

_Dad, I need you to know that I love you, and how much it always meant to me to have your unwavering support since I was a kid, the second of the two loving constants I knew as my parents the entire time I was growing up - you helped me through the toughest years of my life, and were the best father that I ever could've hoped for. _

_Don: I recently took the liberty of sorting through my files and retrieving any information I still had from the different cases of yours I assisted on, and I've put all of it into CalSci's outgoing mail - you should receive it in a few days, and if you find anything is missing, I'm sure that Larry would be more than willing to brave my office to find the rest._

_When all is said and done, I need you to remember this: you were my anchor whenever I started to drift away, my protector whenever I got myself into more trouble than I could handle... you were my invincible big brother, whom I loved and looked up to more than I ever could bring myself to let on, for which I am sorry. You really have always been there for me Donnie, when it counted the most._

_I have no doubt that you will both be angry with the choice I have made, but anger is something I can handle; after six weeks of avoiding seeing the disappointment in your eyes, anger is something I would welcome. You both need to believe me though when I say that this is in everyone's best interest - you'll both be better off, can both have real lives without me around, and my students' parents can see the man that let their children down receive the end he deserved in the first place._

_When it is done, and you find this note, I don't care if you cremate me or put me in a coffin, just as long as I'm buried next to Mom - please; if I've earned just one favor from either of you, I'd like to use it on that request._

_I love you both, and hope that one day you and everyone else can forgive me for letting them die._

_Charlie_

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By the time he was finished reading it, Don was leaning heavily on the desk for support, his knees too weak to hold his weight as he continued to stare numbly at the page. Disbelief was his first reaction, his mind at first refusing to acknowledge the meaning behind those written words, then suddenly shoving said meaning right in his face: this was a suicide letter... _Charlie's_ suicide letter... his little brother was going to kill himself... that is, if he hadn't already done it.

Don hesitantly retrieved the letter from the desk and on closer inspection realized that the page had been stained with tears that had long since dried, leaving the page slightly warped where they had landed. Tears burned the backs of his own eyes as he stared for a moment longer at the heartbreaking words on the sheet before remembering once again the closed bathroom door he'd seen just minutes ago. With determination born of sheer panic, he blinked back his tears and forced his legs to move, carrying him at a dead run from the room, and back down the hall where he stopped in front of the bathroom door. He immediately began pounding on it.

"Charlie! Open the door Buddy! Please!" he yelled, unaware that his desperation had saturated his words until his father came running up the stairs from the kitchen.

"What's going on?" he asked breathlessly, looking back and forth between Don's suspiciously bright eyes and the piece of paper still clutched in his hand. Without a word, Don shoved the page into his hands and continued pounding on the door.

"Charlie, open this door or I swear to God I will break it down! Charlie!" He paused only for a moment to press his ear up against the door, hoping for an answer but hearing only a faint sniffling sound coming from the other side. The sound, however small, almost made Don cry with relief. _He's still alive, he hasn't done anything yet - I'm not too late..._

A sharp gasp from behind him cut off his next round of yelling and pounding and he turned around to see that unlike himself, Alan hadn't felt the need to hold in his tears. Looking up from the letter, Alan's tear-filled eyes met Don's, his voice almost too choked for Don to understand when he spoke.

"Help him Donnie, please." His statement broke down the last wall of restraint Don had and he turned back around, taking two steps back before he braced himself and kicked in the door, hoping in the back of his mind that Charlie wasn't behind it to get hit. The second the door cleared the frame, Don raced inside to kneel beside Charlie who was slumped against the wall beside the bathtub, shaking convulsively with his silent sobbing, tears streaming constantly down his face as he stared down at what looked to be a family picture clutched in his trembling hand. He barely noticed that Alan had come in behind him as he frantically checked Charlie's wrists, his whole body, for any sign of self-inflicted injury, running his hands through his hair, up and down his arms, and checking his stomach and legs at a feverish pace. When his search turned up absolutely nothing, Don briefly sat back, breathing deeply in an attempt to slow his hammering heart.

_It's okay Eppes, don't have a heart-attack, Charlie's all right, you still have time to help him, to fix your baby brother's broken heart - besides, he hasn't even done anything to himself. Maybe he wasn't serious - maybe this is all some sort of sick joke, a serious misunderstanding, or even a nightmare that I'll be waking up from any second now..._

That's when he saw it, tucked between his brother's leg and the side of the bathtub, almost completely out of sight: a medium-sized, overturned orange prescription bottle that looked suspiciously like the one filled with sleeping pills that he had picked up himself from the pharmacy for Charlie a little over a month ago. Snatching up the bottle, Don's breath caught in his throat, his heart all but stopping in his chest as he stared into the empty interior, looking from it to Charlie's face, realizing only now that his skin had gone paper-white, a thin sheen of sweat coating his features. _No..._

"Dad, how many pills were in this bottle," he bit out as he handed the bottle to their father over his shoulder, his eyes never leaving Charlie who still hadn't looked up from the picture. Grabbing the offered bottle, Alan's fear skyrocketed as he recognized the label, and he rushed to answer around his closing throat.

"As far as I know, Charlie hasn't used any so that means... that means there had to have been around sixty of them... are you sure they didn't just spill onto the floor?" His tear-clogged question was one of desperate optimism, but even so Don humored him with doing a quick sweep of the bare floor, about to answer in the negative when a faint, muffled whisper caught his attention.

"_Please don't cry Daddy... I'm not worth your tears_." His heart-wrenching words drew both of their gazes to him, and Don was almost relieved that he had finally broken out of his trance and looked away from the photo, until he saw the look in Charlie's eyes - he looked... empty, like he was already dead. Don shivered involuntarily, peripherally aware of Alan rushing over to kneel beside his youngest, looking as though he were unsure if he should touch him, like he would somehow shatter in his grasp. Don however held no such fears and took firm hold of Charlie's face between his hands, flinching at how clammy his skin was, but remaining undeterred.

"Charlie, how many pills did you take?" Charlie looked him straight in the eye but said nothing, and Don shook him a little, his steadily rising fear and anxiety lending his voice a biting harshness as he gripped his face harder. "_Tell me_ Charlie - _how many pills?_ Tell me!" Charlie's eyes had started to alternate between sliding around, unfocussed, and drifting shut, though he seemed to be making a valiant effort to keep them open, at least for a little while longer.

"_All... all of... them... I think..._" he whispered, his blinks lasting longer with every passing second. His eyelids drooped shut again, but he seemed to lack the energy to pull them back open this time. "_So tired... think... m' gonna sleep..._" He began to slump in Don's grasp, and in a panic, Don fisted his hand in his dark curls and gave a sharp tug. The resulting pain had the desired effect and Charlie's eyes shot back open, looking somewhat confused, the only emotion left in once lively eyes.

"Give me your cell-phone - I... I need to call an ambulance." Their father's urgent demand brought Don out of his reverie and he shook his head, swallowing to make his voice work again.

"No, they'll take too long to get here, then to get him to a hospital," he said, as he quickly stood and deftly scooped his brother's thin frame up into his arms. "We're taking him ourselves in my car - I can use the sirens, we'll get there in under ten minutes."

Nodding his agreement, Alan followed closely behind as Don all but ran back down the stairs and out the front door, glad to see that the jostling of his movements were keeping Charlie's eyes from closing. After he'd deposited Charlie in the backseat with Alan, he jumped into the driver's seat, flicking on the siren as promised before pulling a sharp four-point turn on the lawn so that he could drive around Alan's car, speeding off down the quiet neighborhood street seconds later.

"You gotta keep him awake Dad," he said urgently, not taking his eyes off the street as he maneuvered at break-neck speed through the late-night traffic. "Talk to him about anything and everything, just don't let him fall asleep. He... he won't wake up again if he does." Satisfied at the shaking nod that he saw his father give in the rearview mirror, Don once again focused solely on the road and not getting them killed enroot, his focus only broken by Charlie's whispered words and his rapid breaths that seemed to be getting more and more difficult to pull in.

"_Tina Willows_." Both Alan and Don exchanged a confused look in the mirror before Alan looked back down at Charlie whose upper body lay shaking badly in his lap, his now tear-less gaze half-lidded and unfocussed, starring blankly at the SUV's ceiling.

"Who is Tina Willows Charlie? What are you talking about?" he asked quietly, involuntarily tightening his hold on Charlie's shoulders when Don took another sharp turn, trying to keep him as still as possible.

"_Tina Willows: twenty-two years old, was... working... on her third... year in the math program at... CalSci - been in... my classes since she got... there... really a brilliant... student, an enthusiastic learner, a great... worker... had time for... class, two... jobs, was engaged to be married a month... from now... even invited me to her wedding..._" Charlie paused for a moment, his voice becoming even rougher. "_...she was the first to die._"

"Charlie..." Alan breathed, unsure as to what to say in the face of Charlie's raw anguish. What _could_ he say, really? What could he possibly say to his son to ease the crushing weight that the death of his students had put on his heart?

Neither he nor Don could come up with anything before Charlie continued, his voice taking on a haunted tone around his dragging breaths.

"_Peter Murray: twenty-three, on his... third year in the... program... too - just got to know him... this year... he'd just... barely been passing in... his other math... courses, and when he came to... mine, it... took me a week... to convince him to not drop... out - he turned into one of... my best students... he died right after... Tina, trying to... get the gun from _him_; Gary Hoskins: sixteen, on full-paid... scholarship... to CalSci after acing every math... test since... grade one, and... proving... to his teacher in grade... ten... that he could do quadratic and... calculus equations in... his head... reminded me of me, actually - young, too smart... for people to want to befriend... him, in way over his... head, but enjoying himself... too much to quit... he died in my arms after taking a bullet... to the chest for... looking at _him_ the wrong... way; Henry Parker... Uni Adonis... Carl Staton... Colleen Jebreen... Casey Walker... Ian Wyoming..._"

"Charlie... stop doing this to yourself," Don pleaded from up front, having to free one hand from the wheel to swipe away the moisture in his eyes that was blurring his vision too much for him to be able to see the road. The more names Charlie listed, the quieter and sadder his voice became, and Don swore he could hear a wheezing sound coming from him each time he spoke and breathed.

Either Charlie chose to ignore his plea, or he was too out of it to hear him, because he hardly paused in his tearful reminiscing.

"_...Barry Erwin... Paula Baker... Nick Hart..._" Charlie shook his head despondently. When he spoke again, the wheezing and gasping had escalated to a frightening level, breaking up his sentence, but not enough so that they couldn't understand what was being said. "_Th-They... were in... my... c-care... under... m-my... s-sup-superv-vision... I sh-shouldn't... have l-let hi-... him hurt... th-them... it... it's all m-my... f-fault... I'm so... sorry, so sorry... p-please b-believe me... I ne-...never m-meant... to... let th-them... die... never... meant..._" Charlie was sobbing hysterically by now, only making his breathing worse as he jerked and shuddered in his father's grasp.

Terrified and feeling hopelessly useless, Alan bit back the urge to yell at Don to drive faster, knowing that Don was already going as fast as he could go while still avoiding wrapping them around a telephone pole. _It just feels like we should be there by now... the hospital has always been such a short drive from the house - so why is it that right now, I feel as though we've been driving for hours and getting nowhere when every second counts?_

"There it is, just down the street! We're almost there, we're almost there, just a little further now, we're almost there..." Don's exclamation made Alan want to cry out with relief, and his subsequent self-assuring mantra instilled in his head and heart the foolishly optimistic thought that they were home-free now, that the ordeal was almost over and that they could relax a little with the comfort that the help they needed was literally in sight.

He looked down then and saw that Charlie's eyes were dangerously close to closing, his breaths more choked wheezes than actual breaths. His mouth went dry.

"Charlie...?" What little of his eyes that were still visible finally shifted to look directly at him, and he found he couldn't quite describe the trepidation he felt as one final tear escaped the corner of Charlie's eye, streaking down his face as he forced his voice to work, despite the fact that it looked as though he could hardly even breathe.

"_L-love you... Dad... Donnie... t-tell... their... parent's... m' sorry... s-sorry... love you... both..._" His voice trailed off and before Alan could think to prevent it, his eyes closed completely and he went limp in his lap. A second later, the terrible wheezes ceased, throwing the vehicle's interior into a silence that made Don's blood run cold.

"Dad?" His voice sounded small, completely unlike his stoic, unshakable FBI agent persona - this was uncharted, unprecedented territory... and God help him, he was more scared than he'd ever been in all his life.

"He's not breathing." Alan's voice was a hoarse whisper, hardly willing to believe it was happening until his shaking hand found it's way to Charlie's unmoving chest. "He's not breathing Donnie! DRIVE FASTER!"

In response to his father's terrified, yelled words, Don's foot slammed the gas pedal the rest of the way down, making it so that they were pulling up in front of the ER in under ten seconds, Don jumping out of the driver's seat and lunging for the back seat's door the second he'd managed to stop. Caring little for being gentle at this point, Don practically tore Charlie from their father's grip, pulling him into his arms and clutching him tight to his chest as he sprinted through the automatic doors and into the busy emergency room. For a few seconds he whipped back and forth, searching with wild eyes for a doctor before running up to the front desk, his brother hanging limply in his arms.

"Please, you have to help him," he gasped out to the receptionist who looked from Charlie to him with wide, unblinking eyes. "He downed an entire bottle of sleeping pills... he's not breathing... please, _help him_..." He hadn't even finished speaking before she was rushing out of the enclosed workspace and moving towards the double-doors.

"Follow me," she said quickly and Don was right on her heals, Alan two steps behind him as they raced past almost a dozen curtained off areas before finally finding an unoccupied doctor, to whom the receptionist quickly described the situation. Without sparing her another glance, the doctor hijacked three nurses from surrounding cubicles and quickly rolled a gurney over to Don who wordlessly deposited Charlie onto its sterile surface, watching with a sort of numb detachment as he was wheeled into a curtain cubicle further down where the doctor immediately began CPR. Don stayed where he was only long enough for the doctor to announce that Charlie was breathing again, then he turned and shuffled mutely past his father who followed after him as he slowly made his way back through the double doors, asking him shakily if he was all right as he inched his way towards a set of free chairs.

_All right? He's actually asking if I'm _all right_? No I'm not goddamn all right! Why in the hell would I be all right?! Charlie... Charlie just tried to kill himself... Jesus... Charlie tried to _kill himself _- it almost worked too._

Don's steps faltered, and his heart rate sped up simultaneously with his breathing.

_Charlie had swallowed all those pills long before I got there... what if I hadn't decided to go ask him if he wanted a break? What would've happened had I decided to leave him be for just that little bit longer? ... I would've lost my little brother, _that's_ what would've happened - it'd been so close, _too _close... _

He felt his legs start to buckle and his hand automatically went to the wall, bracing himself as his head swam, his vision blurring and becoming so unfocussed that he barely saw his father's concerned gaze suddenly appear in front of him, his ears ringing so loudly that he didn't even hear Alan's voice, telling him to calm down, take a deep breath. He couldn't think clearly, couldn't manage to speak - he just kept on seeing Charlie's empty eyes, kept on hearing his rasping voice begging his family to believe that he'd never meant to let his students die... _let his students die - _like he actually had a choice in the matter.

_He obviously thought he did... and look where it got him?... How could you do it Buddy? How could you do this to yourself, to us?_

His breaths were coming so quickly that he suddenly found himself unable to draw one, and his dizziness finally got the better of him as his vision went black, his hand slipping from the wall as he collapsed. He vaguely felt a pair of warm arms hook themselves under his own, catching him mid-fall and lowering him carefully the rest of the way down. Very faintly, he could hear his father alternating between calling out for help and practically begging Don to wake up, to speak to him, to open his eyes, and part of him wanted desperately to listen, to not add on to his father's grief and worry tonight, but the rest of him was suddenly too tired to be willing to fight off the darkness that was steadily closing in, wrapping around him in an oddly comforting embrace. It was an embrace of... nothingness - it was peace, it was silence, it was away from this new crisis that had sprung up six weeks after its predecessor to pick up where it had left off in terrorizing this family.

As he allowed himself to sink down further away from reality, his thoughts couldn't help but bring him back six weeks, back to the nightmare that seemed determined to change their lives forever...

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_TBC_


	3. Right Place, Wrong Time

**A/N:** unfortunately my brain had a bit of a hard time spitting this chapter out, so my appologies for the delay, and i hope you enjoy -- (and if this chapter seems too brief, keep in mind that there is plenty more to come)

-don't forget to review please-

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**Chapter 3 - Right Place, Wrong Time**

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**Monday, May 16th - Six weeks earlier...**

From the moment Charlie woke up, he had the distinct impression that it wasn't going to be a good day; the first thing he saw was the gray, dreary sky outside his window that spoke of rain on the verge of falling, which would probably fall on the bike ride to school, the first thing he smelt was the stench of burnt toast wafting up from the kitchen, and the first thing he felt was an unsettling nausea in the pit of his stomach, which the burnt smell was aggravating. With a low groan, he turned over in bed, using his left arm to boost himself up into a sitting position while his right arm wrapped itself around his stomach, willing it to calm down enough so that he could get out of bed without ruining his sheets.

When he was sure that his previous night's supper would stay where it belonged, he carefully swung his legs out from under his covers and planted his feet on the floor, slowly drawing himself up to stand and just as slowly getting dressed, eternally grateful that he wasn't going to have to call in sick; today was going to be the last day of preparations before summer finals, and he knew how much his students would like to squeeze in all of their last minute study questions, and would probably ask him to go over some of the review questions.

Once he'd collected his satchel and had secured his laptop inside, he headed downstairs clutching his stomach harder with each step he took downwards, the smell worsening. Just outside the kitchen, he had to stop and take several shaky breaths to ease the churning, already knowing that there was no way he was going to be grabbing breakfast that morning as he finally entered to see his father angrily sweeping two pieces of black toast into the trash can. He was filling a glass with water from the tap when Alan noticed him and gave a small smile.

"Good morning - sleep well?" Charlie nodded behind his glass, leaning up against the counter while he watched his father rinse the black crumbs off of his plate before returning to the open loaf of bread. He turned back towards Charlie after he'd deposited two more slices into the toaster, an eyebrow raised at the lack of breakfast being made, as well as at the hand that had found its way back to Charlie's stomach, rubbing small, careful circles. "Are you feeling okay?" Charlie frowned slightly, thinking for a moment.

"Yeah, it's not so bad now," he said, finishing off his water and depositing the glass in the sink. "I guess supper yesterday didn't sit too well with me."

"Or you could be coming down with the flu. Maybe you shouldn't be going to work today." Alan's suggestion earned him a dismissive wave.

"Really Dad, it's not that bad. It's not the flu, and it's definitely not worth missing today over; a lot of students will be depending on my being there for last minute help before finals - I'd have to be either crazy or heartless to skip out on them." When he exited into the hallway, he wasn't surprised that his father followed behind him.

"On the other hand, you won't be able to be of much help if you end up getting sick in the middle of a lesson," he said, giving him a pointed look as he crossed his arms over his chest and leaned up against the hallway wall. "Can't you call in and get another teacher to fill in for you? I'm sure they'd be able to answer any questions that your students would ask." Charlie failed to hide an impatient sigh, slinging his bag over his shoulder and sliding into his shoes all on his way over to the door.

"I'm fine Dad. In fact, I'm already feeling better - there's hardly an excuse for me to go hunting for a teacher to replace me for the day," he assured, forcing a smile onto his face despite the still constant churning. In spite of its falseness, the smile seemed to convince Alan somewhat that he was indeed fit to be working, and Alan sighed in defeat.

"Alright Charlie, you win. Just don't hesitate to call me if it gets worse and you don't want to bike back - I've got the day off, so you'll be able to reach me here at home." Smiling again, this time with genuine gratitude, Charlie opened the front door, shivering slightly when a blast of cool wind met him full force, making him glad that he'd decided to wear his thicker suit jacket today.

"Thanks Dad, I will."

And with that he stepped outside, closing the door behind him. He walked quickly over to his bike, glancing up at the darkening sky and wishing fervently that his car wasn't still at the mechanic's as he climbed on and started down the street. Keeping his speed moderately slow, he was very careful to avoid as many potholes and cracks in the sidewalk as he could to avoid provoking his nausea any further, the result being that it took double the amount of time it normally would've taken him to bike to CalSci. Unfortunately, despite the extra precautions taken, he was still sweating and shaking slightly by the time his feet returned once more to solid ground and he secured his bike into the rack, the rain choosing right then to start up with a light drizzle.

With one final deep, shuddering breath, he strode into the Math building out of the bad weather, even managing to smile and return the greetings of students that bid him good-morning all along the path he took to get to his office/classroom, where his first class of the day would be held. He had just unpacked his laptop and was in the midst of organizing his lesson notes when there was a soft knock on the open door. Looking up, his expression brightened slightly when he saw who his early morning visitors were.

"Larry, Amita, come on in," he said, doing his best to cover up how poorly he was feeling as they accepted his invitation and entered, coming to stand beside him behind his desk, Amita leaning up against its edge. Apparently his best wasn't good enough, for when at last he looked back up at his friends, he could see concern in both of their expressions, and could hear it clearly in Amita's voice.

"Charlie, are you feeling all right? You look pretty pale," she said, to which Larry nodded his agreement.

"Indeed you look as though you're about to be sick, Charles. Perhaps you should return home? I'm sure we could find another professor to cover your classes for the day." Chuckling mirthlessly, Charlie continued the process of unpacking and organizing, shaking his head.

"Between you two and my father, it's a wonder I don't stay home every other week, with how often how I'm feeling could be qualified as feeling sick enough to be missing work." Smirking at him, Amita crossed her arms over her middle.

"With how little you deem yourself sick enough to stay home, I'm starting to wonder why the board even bothers to grant you sick days at all. You should talk with them, tell them to divide your sick time equally between those of us that will actually use it." Snorting at her comment, he looked up, about to voice a retort when he saw that the first students of his Advanced Mathematical Theory class were shuffling in, leading him to gently shoo his colleagues out the door.

"I'll meet you both for lunch?"

"Definitely - we'll see you here at noon," Amita assured, Larry agreeing quickly before jogging off down the hall as he remembered that his own class was due to start momentarily as well.

Returning to his desk, he finished his final preparations and began jotting down the beginnings of the lesson on the board, trusting his students to copy as he went. After another five minutes, he turned to face them, doing a head-count and glad to see that each of the twelve Math majors were in their seats. Deciding to leave the door open to keep fresh air coming in, Charlie turned back to the board to finish the equation he'd started, beginning to explain it as he wrote, once again feeling grateful to have such a small class first thing in the morning and being able to teach out of his office, for with how he was feeling right then, the last thing he would've been able to do was make his voice carry through a lecture hall.

He couldn't say for sure how far into the class it was before he vaguely heard a door slam far off down the hall, the sound of pounding footsteps echoing off of the walls as they rapidly drew nearer. Figuring that it was merely a late-arriving student on his way to a class that had already started, he continued speaking, thinking nothing of it until the pounding came to a halt outside his office, the sound of harsh, heavy breathing filtering in a second before the person darted in and slammed the door behind him. Quickly depositing the white-board marker in the tray, Charlie strode angrily over to the black-clad stranger, who had his left hand pressed up against the closed door, the other hand hanging at his side, hidden from view by the duffle bag that hung from his right shoulder. He approached him on his left side, reaching a hand out to grab his shoulder.

"Excuse me, what do you think you're do-" The second his hand touched his shoulder, the man's head whipped around to face him, the wild, glazed look in his eyes distracting Charlie from his other hand that shot up, the butt of the gun that was clutched in it striking Charlie sharply on the side of the head, abruptly cutting off his sentence, and sending him crashing unconscious to the floor.

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His return to consciousness was gradual, and at first painless as he slowly became aware of his surroundings. The first thing he noticed was that while his lower half was definitely sprawled on the stiff carpet covering the floor, his shoulders and head seemed to be elevated, resting quite comfortably on a warm, softer surface; the second was that aside from one or two sniffles, the quiet shifting of someone behind him, and the heavy, erratic breathing off to his left, the room was dead silent, so much so that he began to wonder if whatever was going to happen had already happened, and he'd missed it while he was out. The third came to him when he finally tried to pry his eyes open, the fluorescent lighting directly above him pulling a low, tortured groan from his throat: his head felt like it was slowly being split in half, diagonally across his face from the top of his ear to the underside of his jaw.

"_Hey, I think he's coming to!_"

"_Thank God..._"

"_Professor Eppes? Are you with us now?_" The whispered question came from directly above him, the female voice equal parts concerned and scared. Despite the tone, Charlie found himself tempted by the idea of sinking back into unawareness, all too tempting in its offer of reprise from the intense pain coming from what he had pinpointed as some sort of wound on the side of his head. However, it seemed as though he wasn't going to be allowed to accept that offer as gentle hands carefully shook his shoulders. "_Professor Eppes? If you can hear me open your eyes... wake up, _please_, we need you to be awake._"

Deciding that there was no way he would ignore such a plea, Charlie slowly, painstakingly opened his eyes to slits, groaning again quietly as the blurry, upside-down view of the young woman's face doubled, the two images sliding periodically together and back apart, reminding him sharply of his earlier situation as the nausea returned and went into overdrive. His gut clenched and his eyes squeezed shut with dread as spasms rippled through his stomach and throat muscles, bringing bile up to the back of his mouth, and pulling a strangled whimper past his lips.

"_What's wrong with him?_"

"_Shit, he's gonna be sick - turn him on his side, quick! Do it guys, before he chokes!_"

He could've cried with the gratitude he felt towards that student, whose name currently eluded him, except that right then all of his energy and attention was diverted to keeping his face off the ground and to the act of emptying his stomach until he was plagued by dry heaves, followed closely by hoarse, grating coughs that thankfully lasted little more than ten seconds. When at last it was over, his eyelids slid open again and he squinted at the mess beside his face, monumentally glad that last night's dinner had apparently already passed through his system, so he and the others wouldn't be forced to see it instead of just bile. All the same, he wanted desperately to put some distance between it and himself, and so shakily rolled over onto his other side, wrapping his arms loosely around his stomach as he curled into a loose ball, releasing a faint moan.

"_Feeling any better Professor?_" Slowly, he turned his head so that he could look up at the woman whose lap he had been replaced in, realizing once his vision finally cleared that it was in fact Tina Willows, her delicate features now scrunched with worry. For her sake, as well as the others', he forced a weak half-smile.

"_A little,_" he rasped, swallowing hard in an effort to get rid of some of the residual burning. "_Thanks, by the way - a two-percent credit is going to whoever it was that saw what was happening_." His miniscule attempt at humor had the desired effect, and a quiet wave of nervous laughter met his ears.

"_That would be me Professor_," came a voice from behind Tina. Charlie didn't have to see him to know the voice belonged to Gary Hoskins, the sixteen-year-old scholarship student to whom he was rapidly becoming a mentor, much like Larry had become for him when he'd first started at Princeton.

Any further attempt at levity was obliterated when a voice sounded outside, clearly being magnified by a megaphone.

"Tony Prail - this is the LAPD! We have the building completely surrounded! Throw down your weapon, and come out with your hands behind your head!" Charlie frowned as he glanced back up at Tina.

"_How long have I been out?_" Whispering was only making the burning in his throat increase, but he found he would much rather the extra discomfort than risk drawing the attention of Prail who was sitting with his back facing them on the other side of Charlie's desk, rocking back and forth, muttering something incomprehensible under his breath while his fingers compulsively flexed their grip on his handgun.

"_About five minutes, give or take a few minutes - it was for however long it took for the other classes to be evacuated. I can't say I'm surprised you took so long to regain consciousness,_" she responded, and Charlie winced slightly as he felt a cool fingertip gently prod close to the source of his pain. "_He hit you so _hard_... we were all scared he'd cracked your skull or something, with how much it bled_." The genuine fear behind her words, as well as the nervous murmurs of agreement from the others encouraged Charlie to push aside the residual queasiness, solid determination springing up within him as he reminded himself that head-wound or not, he was the oldest adult in the group, their teacher, and it was up to him to be the strong one, to take charge of keeping the calm in their group until they could get out of there and to safety.

When he suddenly pushed himself up into a sitting position on the floor, Tina jerked with surprise, then moved to catch him as he swayed dangerously on his knees, almost falling back to the ground as the room dipped, blurred and dimmed around him. Accepting their support, he stiffly moved to sit cross-legged in front of the other twelve, purposely placing himself directly between Prail and his students, an action that did not go unnoticed by his silent audience. Once he was sure he wasn't going to fall over, Charlie raised a hand to carefully examine the damage, scrunching his eyes shut as he accidentally scraped the semi-deep, inch-long gash just bellow his hairline at his temple. Pulling the hand back, he saw that his fingertips were indeed stained a deep crimson, and he suddenly became aware of the feel of a itchy stickiness trailing all the way down the side of his face. He looked up to find that he was once again under the concerned and fearful scrutiny of twelve pairs of wide eyes. He quickly scrubbed his fingers clean on his jeans, flashing a small, hopefully reassuring smile.

"_Nothing to worry about - head wounds always look worse than they actually are; no doubt I have a sizable concussion, but nothing at all life-threatening. I'll be fine_." His whispered assurances had the desired effect and he watched as a small portion of tension eased out of their expressions and their body language.

_Mission successful,_ he thought to himself. _It certainly wasn't a lie either - I _will_ be fine, once I've been to the hospital to get a few stitches._ Yep, he'd be just fine... _'be'_ being the operative word, for at that moment he felt anything _but_ fine, feeling as though he were sitting on the deck of a boat on the ocean in the middle of a storm, having to constantly refrain from tipping and tilting with how off-balance his body felt, while the throbbing in his head reached a crescendo. He was relieved to see that his vision still remained clear though, thereby allowing him to occasionally glance over and keep track of Prail's position relative to their spot on the floor, praying silently that he would keep his distance until the cavalry could jump in and save the day, which would hopefully be soon, quite possibly could be. After all, it had been a few minutes already since the megaphone voice had quieted - maybe the SWAT teams were already out there, preparing to execute whichever master plan that would end this before it really began.

The fuzzier, less organized half of Charlie's thoughts, the half that was borne of his recent blow to the head, decided to jump in with the first topic that came to mind.

_Here's hoping that's the case - I don't want to miss my lunch date now, do I?_

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_TBC _


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